


You are Michael

by Sandrene09



Category: Smosh
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 00:38:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3748816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrene09/pseuds/Sandrene09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>You are Michael. Or at least, you are most days.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Not today, it seems. Today, you are Ian. You are Ian because the man who’s slowly rolling his hips as he thrusts into you on a thin mattress in a seedy motel room is whispering that name like it’s a prayer you are not supposed to be privy to. You are Ian because the moment the man looked at you on that sidewalk, you only had to wait a couple of seconds before he took you up on your offer. You are Ian because the man is looking into your blue eyes with desperation in his own brown ones.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	You are Michael

**Author's Note:**

> I’m still working on those prompts, guys, don’t worry. I’m just taking a break from writing them (which is a fancy way of saying that I’m not yet finished writing them). This fic is very experimental, so beware. I hope you guys like it anyway.

You are Michael.

You live in dirty Los Angeles because back then, when your dreams actually looked like they were reachable and not at all impossible, you moved here with your head held high and a bright smile on your face. You had dreams of becoming an actor, the key word being _had_ because now you know better. You know that despite all your dreams and despite your talent, you are just another faceless being in this city of faceless beings. You’re someone to step on. You’re a number.

You really don’t want to be jaded about the entire thing, but there isn’t anything you think you can do. You’re no longer as naïve as you were before, and there isn’t a lot of hope left in you. What there is, instead, is a pile of bills you need to pay precariously stacked on the dirty counter in your too-small apartment, and a saddening realization that you need to get some customers tonight for you to be able to have even a small chance of keeping your apartment. Too small it may be, it’s still something that keeps you safe from rain and heat.

You look at the mirror—something you got from the trash bins at the back of this building, it’s cracked at the top part and there’s a black spot in the middle of it that you’ve tried washing away before but has stubbornly remained—and nod to yourself. One hand reaches up to comb through your brown hair, trying to style it into something that looks appealing, but it remains flat and lifeless. You sigh, but you don’t do anything else. Most of your customers don’t fuck you for your hair anyway. If there’s anything they like about you, it’s your blue eyes, your mouth, your ass, your dick.

You walk out your rickety door in your favorite ripped jean shorts and that slightly too-big sweater that falls on one side to bare one shoulder. You walk out with your head held high, ignoring the furious look of Mrs. Johnson next door who keeps telling you to go to Church.

You are 29 years old, and this isn’t what you thought you would be doing in Los Angeles, but this is what’s happening anyway.

-.-.-.-

You are Michael. Or at least, you are most days.

Not today, it seems. Today, you are Ian. You are Ian because the man who’s slowly rolling his hips as he thrusts into you on a thin mattress in a seedy motel room is whispering that name like it’s a prayer you are not supposed to be privy to. You are Ian because the moment the man looked at you on that sidewalk, you only had to wait a couple of seconds before he took you up on your offer. You are Ian because the man is looking into your blue eyes with desperation in his own brown ones.

Today, you are Ian. You keep your blue eyes open so that he can look into them and keep living in a fantasy even you know only the smallest details of. You grip his shoulders tightly, but you are careful not to leave a single mark. Though he didn’t tell you to be careful, you still are. Men who come to you for pleasure are often men who don’t want reminders of what they’ve done and who they’ve done it with. This man, despite the longing in his eyes, despite the careful way he thrusts into you like you’re a lover rather than a random hooker he met on the street, is no different from the others.

Small gasps make their way out of your mouth. You are careful not to say anything, though, because you know that this man’s fantasy is a thin sheet of glass—just the slightest breeze can make it tip over and shatter.

When the man is on the edge—and you know this not because he is a lover whose body you are attuned to, but because his pleasure is your business—he kisses your forehead and whispers, “can you please whisper my name?”

His name is Anthony. You know this because he told you his name after he asked you to tell him yours. He’s polite, the sort of man who shouldn’t be going to people like you for pleasure but _is_ , the sort of man you can take apart with your hands.

In a way, you _are_ taking him apart. In another way, as you smile softly at him and whisper his name against his ear, you are piecing him back together.

You are Michael and he is just another john, but not really. Not quite. Instead, you are Ian, and he is Anthony, and you are lovers making the most of the evening, not two lost souls who found each other in a dirty Los Angeles street.

When he comes, a deep groan making its way from the depths of his throat, you look at him, at his scrunched up face, his closed eyes like he couldn’t bear looking at your face anymore, and you make up your mind. You whisper, “I love you”, and you watch with horror as a tear slips down his cheek.

It’s not the right thing to say, you think, and you’re about to apologize, but then he opens his eyes and he smiles down at you just before he pulls you off, and the words are lost in your throat.

He’s a very considerate lover. He makes you come, and when you catch your breath, he doesn’t run. Instead, he waits patiently for you to make yourself presentable once again, before handing you his payment.

There’s a sad smile on his face. He hands you the money, and he says, “thank you.”

It’s not for the service, no. It’s for the “I love you”.

You watch him exit the room. You don’t bother counting the bills—men like him don’t steal from people like you.

You are Michael once more.

-.-.-.-

You are Michael.

Sometimes, you are Mark. Other times, you are John. Often, you are nobody.

Tonight, you are Ian once again. You are Ian and he is Anthony and you are lovers.

You keep your blue eyes open, and you stare into his eyes. As he thrusts into you, as he caresses your body like a beloved violin, you start to wonder. What is his story? As curious as you are, you don’t ask though. He may be broken, and it may be your job to fix him with temporary things like tape, but he is not yours to unravel.

You jump over the edge of pleasure first this time. You feel electricity surge up your spine, feel every nerve in your body light up, and when that blessed feeling of release comes over you like a tidal wave, you moan out his name.

He comes when he hears you moan out his name, and he leans down, claiming your mouth with lips that don’t quite know how to move with yours. He kisses you, and you kiss him back, because this is a fantasy he is living in and it is your job to make sure that his fantasy continues on.

When he is satisfied, you and he share hot breaths. He doesn’t move away, and so you don’t tell him to. He doesn’t open his eyes either, and this is his way of telling you that his fantasy is gone. The broken man is going back to his broken reality.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m here again,” Anthony says, a self-deprecating laugh twisting his mouth into an ugly line. His eyes are still closed and he is still gripping your shoulders like a desperate man. You don’t disturb him.

“And you’re probably wondering why I keep calling you Ian,” he continues. He opens his eyes and releases his grip on your shoulders, smiling at you before rolling off, lying beside you instead.

You know you are no longer Ian. You are Michael now.

“You don’t have to tell me why if you don’t want to,” you say, and it’s an honest statement. You don’t want to know this man more than you absolutely have to.

“I want to,” he says, and you know that you absolutely have to listen to him to keep the fantasy alive. You don’t mind much—he is nice and he is broken and tonight, it is your job to fix him.

For a few moments, neither of you speak. You breathe in deep, waiting for him to tell you his story. He continues to lie beside you, silent.

“Nah,” he says, abruptly standing up. You don’t stand up, no. Instead, you watch him put his clothes on, sadness lurking just under the surface of his eyes. “I changed my mind.”

“Okay,” you say simply. It is not your job to push. What is your job is to take what is freely given, and this—the words stuck in his throat, begging for a chance to be released—is not without its cost.

He gives you a grateful smile as he hands you his payment. You watch him run his fingers through his hair, his hands slightly shaking, before he exits the room.

Ian, whoever he is, is a lucky man, you think.

Anthony is not so lucky.

-.-.-.-

You are Michael.

Anthony doesn’t call you by your name, though. Except for that first time, when you met in that dirty street and you approached his car, he has never uttered your name. It’s not because he forgot, but rather because when the two of you walk into the motel room—when he’s with you—he’s no longer living reality.

He didn’t ask you to keep your eyes open, but you do it anyway. You do it because he is one of the most careful customers you have ever had, one of the kindest, one of the most compassionate.

One of the most broken.

This time, when you come, he hugs you, his face pressed in between your shoulder and neck. You’ve never fallen in love, and as you pat Anthony’s back silently, you start to question if you even want to experience such a thing. It seems painful, and it doesn’t seem like it’s worth it.

You don’t think you have a choice though. Anthony, who looks like he has a job that pays well based on his car and the fact that he can afford to ask for your services at least once a week, is not the type to stand idly by if he thinks he can do something about the matter. The fact that he still needs to go to you for pleasure and comfort says a lot about how much Anthony can do about his situation.

After a while, Anthony rolls off. You watch him put his hands behind his head, watch him look at the dirty ceiling, before looking up as well.

“Ian’s my best friend,” he says quickly, like he can’t wait to get it out of his mouth, “and I’m in love with him.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t move to comfort him. You know he needs to get everything out before you do anything, and so, you stay silent and still.

“I was engaged once, you know,” he says in the most conversational tone he could muster. It’s not much, because you can hear his voice shake. “We broke up. I guess you could say I started seeing him in a different light, or something.”

It’s funny, you think, the number of things people are willing to tell strangers but not friends. You are Michael and you are nobody in Anthony’s life and yet you are the one hearing these confessions. You are the priest behind the net and he is the sinner who can’t see you.

“Shit,” he curses, “I’m in love with him.”

He says it like it’s a revelation. It’s not, not really—if he didn’t know this before, you know he would never have come to you—but it’s something as important as one. It’s as important, because if it wasn’t, he would never have bothered telling you this.

When he hands you the money, he gives you a sad smile. He walks out, his head held high, but it doesn’t fool you. It doesn’t fool you, because that is the same thing you do when you walk out of your shitty apartment, the same thing you do when you walk into the motel with a john on your arm, the same thing you do when you walk out with more cash than you came in with. It doesn’t fool you, because it is the armor you desperately cling to.

You look at the money in your hands, and you know that he paid you more than he should have.

-.-.-.-

“He got a girlfriend,” he tells you one day, and though he says it in a conversational tone, you know better. He’s still a stranger, and you are still just somebody he fucks in a dirty motel room that smells of stale cigarettes and rotten food, and yet you feel like you and he are kindred spirits. You and he may not be suffering through the same things or in the same ways, but still, you and he are suffering and are choosing to let each other know despite the fact that there are others who are more capable of understanding.

Tonight, you are Michael. He still doesn’t call you by name, but you know it because tonight, he doesn’t fuck you slowly into the mattress like he usually does when he’s living in his fantasy. You are Michael because you are there to listen to him talk about the real Ian, not to pretend to be him.

He is clothed, and so are you. He is seated with his back against the cold metal headboard that’s rusting in some places, and you are on a rickety stool near the rickety desk by the window. You feel like a psychiatrist. You wonder if that’s what you should have gone for when you were younger instead of acting.

Anthony laughs, a sad little chuckle that you have only heard before from gamblers who have lost all of their possessions and alcoholics who have pushed everyone in their lives away. “Her name’s Jaden,” he says, and he looks at the thin bed sheet all the while. It probably has something to do with your eyes, and once you realize this, you look away. You look at the dirty window. You look at the dirty carpet. You look at the dirty ceiling. You look anywhere but him. He is the only clean thing in this room, you think, and he doesn’t deserve this, but he is here.

When Anthony remains silent just that little bit longer, you realize that you have to talk. You have to let him know that you are Michael. In this moment, you are not Ian, and you are not his pretend-lover.

“Is she nice?” you ask. It is clear to you that you should make him realize that you don’t know this woman the way Ian knows her. It’s another way for him to distinguish between you and his best friend.

Another laugh. He looks at you, and when his eyes meet yours, you feel like he’s bringing you to the water with him, like he’s asking you to drown with him to experience what it’s like to be him. He is broken, and he is asking you to be broken with him.

“Yeah,” he says, and he looks away. He drags one hand down his face. You take note of the bags under his eyes, of the way his eyes are sunken. He looks half-alive and half-dead. Even you, with your job and your life that is falling apart at the seams with every passing day, do not look like him. “God, I don’t deserve him,” he says.

You don’t believe him, but you don’t say otherwise. He has not asked for your opinion, after all.

“Why do you think so?” you ask instead. You’re not a psychiatrist, and you’re not the right person to be listening to these kinds of things, and yet here you are. You are here because even though you haven’t quite experienced what it is like to fall in love as deeply as Anthony has, you do know what it’s like to lose everything you hold dear.

And Anthony, even with his car and his money and his expensive things, looks like a man who has lost it all.

You watch him weigh his words. Eventually, he speaks. “Just because,” he says simply, and you know not to push.

“We’ve been best friends since the sixth grade,” he says, one hand coming up to rub at his temples. “He told me he loved me two years ago.”

You suck in a breath. You don’t know what has happened to him yet, and yet, at the same time, you _know_.

Anthony shakes his head. He shoots you a grin, but it’s fake and it’s sad and it’s everything you never thought a grin could be. He gets up from the bed, takes his wallet from his pocket, and he gives you money.

You don’t count the money in front of him because it’s rude. When he’s gone, you look at the bills in your hand, and you know he has paid you extra.

It’s almost funny, how much a man is willing to pay you just to listen rather than to provide pleasure.

-.-.-.-

“You know, I’ve been talking too much about myself lately.”

You stop trying to figure out what made that stain in the carpet and you look up, straight into his brown eyes. “I don’t mind,” you say. It’s the truth. You’d rather listen to Anthony than pound into some stranger.

These days, Anthony is no longer a stranger. He’s not someone you know fully and he doesn’t really know much about you, but he is a familiar face, someone who even the other hookers who share your street corner recognize.

In a city where everyone is a stranger, you’ll take every non-stranger you can get, even if they involve brokenhearted men who come to you to forget.

“I do,” he says. “I don’t want to force you to talk to me, though.”

For a moment, you can do nothing more but look at him. “I’m Michael,” you say, tilting your head to examine him further. He hasn’t been getting much sleep. “I wanted to be an actor.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t want to be one anymore?”

You chuckle. You’re only 29 and he’s only 27 and yet you feel so much older than him. “No,” you eventually say as you shake your head. “I know better. Not every aspiring actor in Los Angeles gets to live his dream.”

“Ah,” he says, and you feel like he knows more than you think. He probably does. You don’t know him very well, after all.

-.-.-.-

Sometimes, you are Michael. Other times, you are Ian.

Tonight, you’re not quite sure who you are. You’re not sure because Anthony is holding your hands tight above your head as he fucks you into the wall. This isn’t the tender lovemaking you’ve become used to when you’re with him, no. This is fast and this is desperate and this is watching someone break into tiny little pieces you’re not sure you have the capability to fix.

He bites at your shoulder hard, and you gasp loudly as he does so, little curses making their way out of your mouth despite the fact that you don’t want to say anything, afraid that the littlest thing will remind Anthony that you are not the man Anthony wishes he is having sex with.

When you and he are done, you watch as tears slide down his cheeks. He hugs you tight, like you’re an anchor in the storm, like you’re his only chance of surviving the rising waters.

Maybe you are. You don’t quite know. You hold him anyway. You run your fingers through his hair and you hum under your breath in an effort to soothe him.

“He introduced her to his parents,” he says, and you hug him tighter. You hug him tighter because you feel like you are the glue keeping the various pieces together. You hug him tighter because he deserves comfort, deserves someone to hold him back.

Your opinion isn’t needed, isn’t wanted, and it’s really not something you want to say, but you say it anyway.

“Tell him you love him,” you say. You continue patting Anthony’s back even when he tenses. “He deserves to know, don’t you think?”

He doesn’t say anything. Eventually, you get tired, and you slide down the wall, taking him with you.

“He deserves to know,” he whispers, and it sounds like an agreement. “I don’t think I deserve to tell him, though. I pushed him away before, didn’t I?”

You say nothing.

“What if our friendship breaks apart because I told him?” Anthony asks, and he sounds so scared that it makes your heart hurt. He is a man desperate enough to accept scraps and pieces because he would rather have those than none at all.

“It won’t,” you say, because you might not know Ian and you might not know Anthony that well, but you know that it is a risk worth taking.

“I’m scared,” he admits, and you know it has taken a lot out of him to even say those words. “Fuck, I’m 27 years old and I’m scared,” he says, and he laughs self-deprecatingly.

You smile sadly, pushing him away from you. You wait for him to open his eyes, and when he does so, you allow your smile to curl up at the edges, allow yourself to pretend to be happier than you are. “I’m 29 years old and _I’m_ scared.”

The room feels dead, somehow. You’re not used to this kind of feeling, but then again, you’re not used to any of this. You don’t normally make money comforting heartbroken men, and you don’t make a habit of letting men use your time to talk rather than to fuck.

When he leaves, you know it’s probably going to be a long time before you see him next.

Despite the fact that he’s more or less singlehandedly paying for all of your bills, you hope that you don’t ever see him again.

You hope that Anthony gets to make his fantasies a reality with the real Ian.

-.-.-.-

You are Michael.

Sometimes, you are Mark. Other times, you are John. Often, you are nobody.

Tonight, you are confused.

“What do you mean you’re offering me a job?” you ask, your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He and you are in a motel room, the same one you have been going to since he first approached you, and he is smiling at you.

It’s disconcerting. You’ve never seen him this happy before. The bags under his eyes are gone and he looks healthier. He has been getting much-needed sleep.

“Well,” he says, smiling at you, “Ian and I are Youtubers, and we were looking for actors. I thought you would like a chance to live your dream.”

You smile.

You are Michael, and you think you don’t have to be anyone _but_ Michael from now on.

It’s a refreshing thought.

-.-.-.-

You don’t have to ask Anthony about whether or not he and Ian are together, because you can see it clearly with your eyes. You watch Anthony work with Ian, watch both of them joke with each other, and you wonder if you even really saw a broken man just two weeks before.

You watch Anthony look at Ian like he’s everything Anthony needs in life, and you smile.

You smile because you know.

You never have to be Ian again.

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t own Smosh. I don’t make money from this.


End file.
